


Fuck McDonald’s

by Ironicallyiron



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bad Cooking, Baking, Cute, Domestic, Fluff, High School AU, Humanstuck, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 06:42:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16403267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironicallyiron/pseuds/Ironicallyiron
Summary: Dave and Karkat are hungry after one of Karkat’s writing lessons.





	Fuck McDonald’s

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t really know what this is and I just wrote it on my phone but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless !!

The freezing-cold Autumn air soaks into your skin, making you curse your unspoken rule of Fashion Over Function. You draw your cherry red zip-up closer to your gangly frame, which absolutely makes you lose your air of uncaring stoicism but fuck man it’s gotta be below zero degrees. Negative sixty-nine, maybe. Ha. Nice. 

 

You lean against a light pole in a manner that both relieves the pressure from your feet  _ and  _ makes you look like a nonchalant male model. You’re working that pole like a single mother trying to pay her way through college and provide for her six-month-old son by turning to the exotic arts. 

 

You glance again at your watch and to the door of the Community Center separating you from your boyfriend. 

 

Karkat has been taking writing classes here for the past couple of months- nothing hardcore, just a three hour class every two weeks. It’s not like he needs them; he’s already making the best English grades your school has ever seen. 

 

You’ve read a few of his short stories and you have to admit they’re incredibly well-written, despite being as far from your usual tastes as it comes. He writes romance like a fish swims in water. 

 

Another chilling breeze washes over you and you groan. You’ve got places to be, you can’t just be standing around waiting for your main (only) squeeze like a househusband waiting for his wife to get home with the bacon. 

 

That’s a lie. You don’t have anything to do today except for your weekly movie marathon with Karkat. Today’s theme is horror, what with it almost being Halloween and all. You’re hoping the flicks you chose will get him nice and spooked so he’ll cuddle up into your manly, protective arms and remain there for the rest of the night. 

 

Finally, the metal door to the community center swings open, and out come a handful of the class-goers. In the back of the group you spot a head of unruly black hair that you could recognize from a probably a good number of miles away. 

 

You allow yourself a grin as you speed-walk over to him. Can’t get caught running, that might put an idea in someone’s head that you care enough about anything to run. The only reason Dave Strider would be caught running is if it’s in slow motion on the beach towards a drowning babe in need, shirtless and coated in a sheen of tasteful sweat.

 

You meet up with him at the base of the steps that lead to the door. “What took you so long?” you ask. “I was waiting over there so long I’m pretty sure I grew a beard to rival one of Roxy’s wizard statues. I have liver spots now. My stomach has caved in from starvation. I know there’s McDonalds a block away but I didn’t dare leave my post to eat. I chivalrously waited for my beloved, like a knight outside the gates of his princess’s castle, waiting for her to let down her messy-ass black hair.”

 

He rolls his eyes at you in that way that lets you know you’re being annoying. 

 

“I’m ever so sorry, my Knight in Shining Armor, but one of the shitheads on the back row asked Mrs. Kirk about her personal life and it spiralled from there. I was stuck listening to her rattle on about her stupid kids for thirty minutes before she finished her lesson.” He says with a huff. 

 

He slings his worn backpack over his shoulders. “Let’s get something to eat. I’ve had jack shit all day and my stomach feels like it’s ready to start digesting my other organs any second now.” 

 

“McDonald’s?” you ask hopefully. You could put the smackdown of a lifetime on some nuggies right now. “I’ll get you the biggest mac to have ever grace the greasy-but-sticky counter of Mickey D’s. Shit’ll be so stacked it’ll take at least four grown men to carry it out of the kitchen. Damn McDonald’s sounds so good right now.” 

 

He wrinkles his nose. “Ew, fuck no.”

 

“Oh, so now you’re too good for Ronald? What’ll he tell the kids? Sorry, Donaldlings, papa’s not coming home. He’s too good for us. He’s hooked on that organic shit now. He’s left me for whatever the Panera Bread mascot is. It’s okay. He’s like, bundling up all the little baby chicken nuggets and shooshing them. You’ve broken up a family, Karkat.” 

 

He rolls his eyes again and starts walking towards his place. “Shut up. McDonald’s is all I’ve been eating now that Kankri’s not around to cook dinner. Dad can’t cook worth a shit so he just brings McDonald’s home. I’ve had enough processed buns and fake meat to last several greasy, fat-fueled lifetimes.” 

 

You forgot that Kankri had started college. He was pretty much the sole reason Karkat was so tiny- all that vegan food probably stunted his growth. He was suffering from a lack of vitamin moo. Now that you think about it, Karkat  _ has _ put on a few pounds since Kankri’s been gone. If he were to strip off his sweater and binder, you probably wouldn’t be able to see his ribs anymore. You’re a bit relieved. 

 

“I know that feel, man. Our kitchen is past unusable at this point, not that we could use it if it wasn’t. I don’t think I’ve had a meal in the past five years that wasn’t out of a takeout container.” Your stomach grumbles. 

 

Karkat thinks for a moment, his eyes wandering to the sidewalk. “I… think we have some cake mix at home? We could make that. It’s near impossible to fuck up a boxed cake.” 

 

“Shit, don’t let John hear you have that. He’ll bust into your house SWAT-style and burn your cupboard to the ground to prevent the Crocker disease from spreading.” You joke. Well, half-joke. 

 

Karkat snickers at that. Your heart maybe kinda flutters. A little. 

 

“But yeah, I could jam on some cake. Let’s turn the dial to Gordan Ramsey mode and get to cookin’, good-lookin’.” 

 

It’s another four blocks to his house. His dad is working, which leaves the house unoccupied. You get to have some of that good old fashioned alone time. You know, for movies and stuff. 

 

He unlocks the door, throws his backpack haphazardly to the side and kicks off his goofy slip-on dollar store sneakers. He slips his sweater off and tosses it aside as well. You see he’s wearing a shirt you got him last year for his birthday- a now heavily worn off-white T-shirt with crabs printed on it. You originally got it for him because of his hate of crabs (when your dad’s a crab fisherman you can only handle so much), but it’s now a testament to his love of absolutely horrendous comfortable clothing. 

 

You take the time to untie your Jordans and set them aside. Your jacket, however, stays the fuck on, because Vantases apparently have space heaters in their chests or some shit because their house is always at least five degrees cooler than outside. 

 

He pads over to the kitchen and starts digging through the pantry, which is mostly full of old canned goods and rice-a-roni. In the very back of the second shelf- which he reaches only on his tip toes, so fucking cute- is a box of Betty Crocker®️ Super Moist German Chocolate™️ cake mix. He brushes off the thin layer of dust from it and checks the date. 

 

“It expired last week,” he says, disappointed. “Fuck, I really wanted some cake.” 

 

“Pfft,” you walk over to him and grab the box from his hands, “I eat shit that’s expired all the time, it’s nothing. Those dates are just a way for Big Grocery to push you to throw out good stuff and buy more shit. It’s just as good as it was when it was boxed, trust me.” 

 

He seems to weigh this in his mind. “The date’s there for a reason, Dave. It’ll probably give us the stomach bug or something. I am  _ not _ spending next week hunched over the toilet with my face inches away from my own stomach contents.” He turns back to the cupboard and roots around a little more. 

 

“You’re not gonna find anything but canned beans and microwave rice in there, my man. And maybe a fucking skeleton because holy shit has this thing not been opened since you bought the house or something? This bastard’s dustier than great grandpa’s nutsack.” You sneeze from the dust in the air as if to punctuate the statement. 

 

Karkat drops back down on his heels and sighs. “First thing, gross, second thing, it’s not my fault Kankri never bought long-lasting food! He cooked fresh shit or whatever.” You hear his stomach rumble and he groans. After a moment’s pause, he huffs and says, “Whatever, let’s make the cake.” 

 

Flash forward a few minutes and all your ingredients lay out before you. Well okay, most of them. There’s only one egg, and you couldn’t find a ¾ measuring cup, so you just went with a full cup of water, and there was only olive oil, which is technically made of vegetables anyway so who cares. You also found some whipped cream in the back of the fridge, which is basically the equivalent of finding a bar of gold in the back of your locker. 

 

You pour it all together in a bowl and start mixing while the oven preheats. All the other cutlery was dirty, so you’re using a plastic fork. 

 

You look at the mix after a few minutes of stirring. “Hm. Hey, do you think it’s supposed to look all lumpy like this?” 

 

Karkat peers into the bowl, his deep brown eyes scrunched up. “The box says to stir until it’s smooth, idiot.” He smacks you on the arm. 

 

You let out a long, dramatic sigh. “But Karkat,” you lament, “I’ve been stirring for so long I’ve lost feeling in my arm. I’m not even sure if it’s still there. I might just feel a phantom limb, like amputees do. This shit has been mixed better than my last track, it’s as smooth as it’s gonna get.” 

 

With another roll of his eyes, Karkat pushes you out of the way. Rather, you let him think he pushes you. The kid’s barely strong enough to lift a bouncy ball. 

 

He takes over the stirring while you fish out a pan from the cabinet next to the oven. You wiggle your butt a bit in case he’s looking. Gotta give your boy a show. He pours the batter- which is still pretty fucking lumpy, by the way- into the shallow pan and you throw it in the oven. You set a timer on your phone for twenty minutes. 

 

You then snatch the whipped cream from the counter and spray some into your mouth. Karkat elbows you and chastises you- “Don’t eat it all.” In retaliation, you spray some on the top of his head, in a perfect little dollop. 

 

He whips around to face you, fire in his eyes and a snarl on his lips. Before you can even think about laughing, he steals the can back from you and sprays a six-inch tower of the topping into his hand. He promptly pushes it into your face, sullying your perfectly clean shades. “Oh it’s fucking  _ on. _ ” you mutter, grabbing his wrist. 

 

You twirl him around and grab his other arm. You pin them together in you left fist while your right hand skitters over his ribs- the most ticklish spot on his body. 

 

He cracks up into laughter, trying to wiggle out of your iron grip.

 

“Ahh! Let-let me go you fucking- haha!- you fucking  _ prick _ ! Stop it!” He cries in desperation. 

 

You relent on your tickles for a moment to scoop some of the whipped cream off your face and rub it into his. 

 

He kicks you in your shin and scurries away, but you catch up in no time. You wrap your arms around his abdomen and get back to tickling him- you’re laughing too, now, in the honest way that you can only let yourself laugh around a select few of your closest friends. 

 

In his wiggling, he ends up toppling backwards and, like a strikingly handsome domini, so do you. You lay on the plush carpet for a minute or so, just… laughing. 

 

Karkat sits up and snorts at your face. “You look like you were on the wrong end of one of John’s dumbass pranks.” 

 

You grin. “Like you can say anything- you look like Mrs. Doubtfire.”

 

He stands, chuckling, and walks back to the kitchen to towel off his face and hair. You do the same before pressing him against the counter and stealing a loving kiss from his soft lips. 

 

You gaze at one another for a moment, and you realize you could stay like this forever. Not to be gay or anything. 

 

You retreat to the comfort of the couch. 

 

You stretch out with your feet propped up on one armrest and your head resting on the other. 

 

“Do you really need to take up the whole fucking couch? Do you have  _ any _ consideration for others, or is it just all Dave all the time up in your thick head?” Karkat huffs once again. 

 

Jokingly, you pat your crotch and say “I got a seat for you right here, baby.” 

 

He makes a sound of disgust, laced with embarrassment. He pointedly flops down on your stomach instead, knocking the air from your chest. Not too long after, he shifts to be laying on top of you, his head in the crook of your neck. 

 

You lay your hand on his back, and you jat lay like that for a bit. Breathing together, eyes shut. He nuzzles into you and your heart picks up because fuck dude. You love him so much. 

 

He picks his face up and kisses your chin. You kiss him back on the top of his head. 

 

“You know Nepeta- the sophomore?” He asks. You’ve heard of her, so you nod. “I saw her today, on the way to class. She was trying to get a stray kitten out from behind the garbage can in front of the candle store.”

 

You answer with concern presented as curiosity. “Did she get it?” 

 

Karkat nods. “Yeah, I think. When I passed by later I looked and it wasn’t there.”

 

You’re relieved for the sake of the little kitten. “She always seemed weird.”

 

He shrugs. “She is, but she’s nice. I used to be a fucking asshole to her, and I feel bad about that because it’s just so blatant she’s got a crush on me. It makes me uncomfortable because, like, I hate it for her, but I’m just… not into her.” 

 

For a split second a pang of what you swear isn’t jealousy shoots through your chest. “Do I have to fight her for your hand?” 

 

You don’t see it but you know he rolls his eyes. “Aside from the obvious, that being we’re not in medieval Europe, she would absolutely wreck your scrawny twink ass.” 

 

You scoff in fake offense. “I beg to differ. I could hit her with the ol’ left hook and send her flyin’ to Mars.” 

 

“Nepeta’s had a four pack since fifth grade.” 

 

“What a coincidence, I’ve had a sixth pack since fourth grade.” 

 

Karkat laughs at the absurdity of your statement. 

 

You can’t help but chuckle now, too. 

 

You share a quiet moment. You shift to your side, taking your tiny boyfriend with you. You’re spooning him now; he presses back into you, and you gladly steal his warmth. 

 

You rest your face in his unruly hair. Soon enough you start talking again, this time on the subject of yesterday’s math homework, which neither of you really care about. You just both love the sound of your own voices to be quiet for too long. 

 

His stomach grumbles again and you rub it absentmindedly. You feel the heat rising in his neck from embarrassment. 

 

A content sigh escapes your nose. You draw him just a bit closer and he sighs, too. 

 

You lay like that for a while, with not a worry to be thought of. 

 

Until the alarm in your back pocket goes off. 

 

The two of you groan in unison at your ruined moment. You shut the alarm off and sit up, Karkat just behind you. After running your hand through his hair and giving him a chaste kiss, you head to the kitchen. 

 

You fish the cake out from the oven and  _ boy howdy _ is that one hell of a shitfest. The edges are cracked and coal-black and hangs over the sides of the pan, but the middle jiggles like Santa’s belly. Something about it- aside from the burn- just smells  _ off.  _ You exchange looks with Karkat. His face says “I’m not fucking eating that”, but his stomach growls again nonetheless. 

 

Without a second thought, you scrape it into the trash. This is a difficult task, considering it’s stuck to the pan like Gorilla Glue to all your toughest surfaces. 

 

With a defeated sigh, Karkat picks up his phone and dials Pizza Hut’s number. 


End file.
